Warily, Miriam handed over the manuscript. “You can take your time. But please be careful with it,” she said.
Laura nodded vigorously. “I won’t let it out of my sight,” she said, and she shoved the manuscript into her backpack. They slipped back into awkward silence. Laura gazed hopefully at the kettle.
“Have the police been in touch with you?” Miriam asked her. Laura shook her head. “Good. That’s good, isn’t it?”
Laura chewed her lip. “I suppose. I don’t really know. I keep looking on the news to see if there’s been any . . . progress, but there doesn’t seem to be.”
“No, there doesn’t, does there?”
And the silence descended again.
“I could murder a cup of tea,” Laura said.
“Oh, yes!” Miriam looked relieved to have something to do. She resumed tea-making duties, only to quickly discover that she had no sugar （Laura took two and a half spoons）， so she said she’d nip along to the café on the towpath to borrow some.
Laura slipped off the bench and started, once more, to inspect Miriam’s accommodation. It was a lot nicer than what she’d been expecting. Then again, what had she been expecting? Something sad and dirty and dreary like Daniel’s place? This wasn’t that; this was a lot nicer than Laura’s flat. Here there were plants and pictures and cookbooks, there were blankets, old and threadbare but colorful still, folded neatly in the corner. It smelled lovely, of woodsmoke and lemon. All the surfaces were spotless.
On the bookcase next to the wood burner sat a little gold carriage clock. Laura picked it up, felt its pleasing weight in her hand. Above the bookcase, there was a shelf on which sat a wooden box. Laura tried the lid and was surprised to find it unlocked. She took the box from the shelf and placed it in front of her on the bench. Inside, she found a pair of earrings, hooped, also in gold, which didn’t look like Miriam’s taste at all. She slipped them into her pocket and continued to sift through the box. There was a silver cross with a tiny crucified Jesus, a dog ID tag, a smooth gray pebble, a letter addressed to Miriam, a key attached to a key ring.
Laura was so surprised to see it that at first she didn’t recognize it for what it was. Not a key, her key! Her front door key, attached to the wooden key ring with a bird on it. She picked it up, holding it up to the light. Behind her, she heard a creak, she felt the boat rock gently beneath her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a shadow move and a voice said, “What do you think you’re doing?”
* * *
? ? ?
Laura jerked around so quickly, she almost fell off the bench. Miriam stood in the doorway, a jar of sugar in one hand, her face thunderous. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing going through my things?”
“Your things?” Laura recovered quickly, squaring herself, ready to go on the offensive. “This is mine!” she said. “What the fuck are you doing with my front door key?”
Miriam took a step forward and placed the jar of sugar on the counter. “I found it,” she said, pursing her lips, as though she were offended that Laura should question her in this way. “I meant to give it back to you, only I forgot, I—”
“You forgot? You were in my flat the other day, and you didn’t think to tell me you had my key? Where did you find it? Where . . . this is blood, isn’t it?” Laura said, turning the key over in her hand. “This had . . . Jesus, this is covered in blood.” She dropped the key as though it were red-hot, wiping her fingers on her jeans. “Why would you take it?” she asked Miriam, her eyes wide, uncomprehending. “You were there, you said, you were there after I left, but why would you . . . why would you take it?” Laura was starting to get a bad feeling about this, a very bad feeling, not helped by Miriam, standing squarely in front of her, blocking the entrance to the cabin, a stout, squat block of flesh, arms across her chest, shaking her head but saying nothing, as though she were thinking, as though she were trying to come up with an excuse for her behavior. Laura’s stomach flipped. Before, back at Laura’s flat, she’d been joking when she’d said that maybe Miriam killed Daniel, but now, now she was thinking maybe she’d been right; now she was thinking all kinds of things. This woman was damaged, this woman was a victim, this woman was fucking crazy.
“I saw it.” Miriam spoke at last, her expression blank and her voice even, the anger gone. “I saw the key, lying there, it was next to him. He was pale, and he looked . . . oh.” She sighed, a long sigh, as though all the breath were leaving her body. “He looked desperate, didn’t he?” She closed her eyes, shaking her head again. “I saw the key, I picked it up . . .” As she said this she half-mimed the action, bending down, picking up the key, her eyes tightly shut until she said: “I was protecting you, Laura. I’ve been protecting you all along, and I may have my own reasons for that, but that doesn’t change anything. . . .”